The Promptness of Death
by InkBell
Summary: This isn't exactly an x-over, but there was no where else to put it. However, this is one of the best Jack the Ripper scenario that I've ever written.


_The Promptness of Death_

By Brea McCoy

Along the brumous streets of Whitechapel, a golden watch ticks in the gloom. The vapors hang in the air like suffocating and dirty cotton, ready to smother any night walker. One man braves these circumstances, with only a little black bag and a resolution; to be on time. With such stoicism, and a hand so firmly grasping the smooth gold of his watch, this man pounds the cobblestones of London.

The watch in the grasp of the man who walks the perilous streets; seems to radiate it's own pulse. However dull and tireless it might be, it kept time with a sort of soothing metronome. This watch is a vital part of the unknown night-walker, as though it were his very beating heart clasped in his glove.

He had an appointment, with one Ms. Elizabeth Stride, also known as Long Liz. A fidgety, quiet woman with no teeth in her lower left jaw. She was wispy with curly brown hair and apparently didn't know when she'd had enough to drink. She'd appeared in court several times on charges of drunk and disorderly conduct, but the courts never did anything useful. That was, apparently, his job.

This man, this gilante who roamed the streets of Whitechapel with his little black bag, ticking watch, and a sense of dissatisfaction; had apropos fancies of the most morbid nature. Not simply towards Ms. Stride, but to all women who might step so far out of place as to "make him an uncomfortable bystander". However, all his hard work and patience must always go unnoticed, as it might be disagreeable to the bumbling constables and their pathetic inspectors.

He was needed, there was no question of that. How might he keep his job and perform his true work? With double identity, of course. Thus, came the guise of Jack, then Saucy Jack, from a more playful affair, and finally a name from the _ever-so_ _creative_ minds of the local police, Jack the Ripper.

He liked this name far better than anything he'd come up with., which was hard to admit even to himself. His thoughts had always been that the law, however proper and authorities, had never quite grasped the _law. _The law was something that no one could quite comprehend fully; not the state, not the church, and especially not the common man. One had to be a wise soul from a very young age to know the true lay of the land.

Someone born with sharp teeth, cynicism, and a concept of disregarding what others say is "right and wrong". Someone whom, when smelling a flowery scent in the air, looks for a funeral procession. A man such as the one who carries a black bag.

If someone were to go beyond the corner, just along the alley between the Green Goose Tavern and the thrift-shop; it's windows lined with all sorts of trinkets to catch the dull and wanting eye of any working girl. One would fine, in this dank crevice of stone and human filth, that our man meets his appointment. Why in such a place as this? Because it's public, but currently secluded, and has a well-connected sewer duct.

Long Liz is tossed from the Green Goose, at her usual time of two-fifteen in the morning. Our man waited in the shadows, accompanied by his little black bag; with gloved hand fitted securely around the watch that ticks in his left jacket pocket. In the alley before him, Liz stumbled about, resting herself against the very wall that conceals her executioner.

She babbled to herself, sputtering what's left of the saliva and liquor in her mouth all down her blouse. Apparently those missing teeth made it harder for her to control her tongue. Her fist rose to beat the invisible wall in front of her, and a slew of obscene words fell from her mouth like her spittle.

She turned then, noticing our man for the first time. Her eyes were dull, like unpolished marble. They stared at him, clearly unimpressed. Of all the expressions he'd received, this was the look that our man liked the most. Primarily because it made the aftershock so much more delicious.

He released the watch; the metronomic heartbeat stopped, and silence filled the air. The circulation of his blood, all the time he'd been walking, all during the day, had ceased. If the human eye could see so deeply below cloth and flesh, it would observe that the once red-hot liquid rushing through his veins had stood stalk still and grown frosted with cold.

There was a quick snap of the clasp on the little black bag, and an ever-faithful tool was withdrawn. An elongated surgical instrument that, not only healed the sick, but punished the wicked. The black phantom sped toward the drunk and disorderly Elizabeth Stride. With simple shoes and a fedora pulled down over his face, the specter was indistinguishable from the darkness of the wall.

A graceful arch brought the steel to her flesh, but it was far too quick for her to scream or call for help. Pain assailed her throat as she fell to the stone pavement in silent rage and anguish. However, our man was not done punishing this woman's crimes against herself and the rest of the world, not at all.

Blood flourished from the carotid artery, mixing with the drool on her blouse in a pink, cherry blossom design. Quite pretty, but the deviant or hero, whichever you might call him, had no time to notice. He had art of his own to create. With a system of slits and slashes, more to prove a point than anything else.

In fact, he never sensed that they might be artistic until the horror was complete and the watch was back in hand. Once the ticking resumed, he would regain reason, but until then, he was little more than a meticulous, animalistic murderer. He felt no bondage to the law, as other vigilante's may; a sort of chaotic lawful type. The kind of man who wanted everyone to know his nom de plume, but cared more for his own satisfaction.

Long Liz lay spread-eagle on the dirty cobbles bellow, with her limbs thrashing to escape. There was no one to hear her coughs, nor to see the mixture of vomit and blood that pooled around her face. An incision was made in Liz's abdomen, to extract the liver from her still lively body. Tongs and a raw-hide satchel were withdrawn from the bag, and the liver was placed in the satchel. The offending instrument and tongs were neatly whipped clean and tucked away as she watched with wild and pleading eyes. There was no more struggle left in her, but all that happened, wrenched tears down her cheeks and literally poured salt in the wounds. Her chest, which had once pumped fiercely to draw breath, now barely rose high enough to fall.

Another, much smaller surgical tool was withdrawn and placed at the tender flesh of her groin. Talley marks with no numeric significance lined her inner thighs in a sort of attention-getting arch. He moved upward onto the torso, making the same sort of incision around the stomach, breasts and smoothly along the shoulder blades. All intricate and time consuming designs were made visible by the removal of most of her clothing and the… less than proper repose she lie in.

With his work for the night complete, our vigilanty replaced the second instrument and made his way to the corner, where a dark square with a little finger hole awaited him. He pulled the sewer hatch open and plunged feet first inside. The hatch slammed behind him, concealing him from the above world. Within the cavernous system of tunnels, he made his mad dash through ankle deep rainwater, very grateful he'd worn bad shoes. The watch was again clasped in hand, and his blood began to run once more. His brain was fueled and roared like a coal-driven engine, already plotting the note he would send by post to the police. What fun it was to be so wickedly lawful.

The smack of the metallic hatch against the pavement had brought the tavern master from his upstairs apartment. Obviously angry, as his face was livid and his fists were clenched into tight balls. His few hours of sleep were all he had, and they'd been taken away.

"Who the ruddy-hell—" He barked, flinging his back door into the night. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes pinched shut. The body of the drunk he'd thrown out of his tavern less than an hour ago, was lying in a pool of thick, bodily broth, clearly dead.


End file.
